


Laughter Pours From Under Doors

by Alcoholic_kangaroo



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23389192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_kangaroo
Summary: Near has somehow seduced L. Near has somehow drawn L into whatever perverse game it is he is playing here, and Mello knows it is a game.
Relationships: L/Mello | Mihael Keehl, L/Near | Nate River, Mello | Mihael Keehl/Near | Nate River
Comments: 9
Kudos: 37





	Laughter Pours From Under Doors

**Author's Note:**

> Anybody sick of my shit yet?

The punishment for stealing sheep in Wales used to be harsher than that of being caught fornicating with them. For that reason, or so folklore proclaims, Welsh sheep robbers when caught would merely claim they were there to have sex with the sheep and definitely did not plan on running off with them afterwards. Eventually, this led to the stereotype that the Welsh were especially attracted to sheep and regularly took part in sexual relations with them. Sheep fucker, sheep shagger, whatever the term one wished to use, became not only an insult but somewhat of a slur to the Welsh people even though there was no real evidence that any of them were actually sexually involved with any ungulates.

Now L Lawliet on the other hand, he is a sheep fucker. A bonified, repeat offending, monogamous sheep fucker, and Mello has proof of this fact.

As Chicken Little once famously repeated, “I heard it with my own ears, I saw it with my own eyes, and part of it fell on my tail.”

Of course, the type of sheep L is interested in is not the normal variety of sheep one would see grazing contentedly in the green countryside. This sheep is cruel and unfeeling. This sheep is cunning. This sheep cheats.

This sheep has a name and that name is Near.

Mello has no idea how L could be fooled by such a pathetic creature as Near.

Mello has no idea why L would want to even touch the boy. He is so weird with his white hair and his blank eyes and the way he sits on the floor for hours and hours at a time, only moving when he is forced to go to class or to meals or to sleep. He rarely smiles and when he does it looks off, as if each smile is the first time his body had ever used those particular muscles. His smile is not charming, it is disturbing. When he speaks his voice is monotone and cold as if he has never felt a single sincere emotion throughout his life. There is nothing warm there. Nothing sensual. Nothing that calls out to be touched. Even his hair, his curly white sheep’s wool, is always a mess. He never brushes it and he constantly pulls and tugs at it so that it stands up in places. He looks like a deranged serial killer.

No, Near is not even attractive. He is strange and robotic and cold.

Mello is much more attractive than Near. All the girls at Wammy’s House know this and they flock to him for constant approval. Mello wears real clothes, flattering clothes that compliment his skin color, and he is meticulous about his hair, which he washes and conditions and trims every week, and he takes care of himself with frequent exercise. He does not have dead eyes. He does not have tangles in his blond locks. He is basically perfect and Near looks like a pile of trash next to him.

Yet Near has somehow seduced L. Near has somehow drawn L into whatever perverse game it is he is playing here, and Mello knows it is a game. Near is not a sexual creature. There is no way in hell that sheep has any interest in something so mundane as penises and orgasms. Mello is one hundred percent sure that all of this is part of their game, their competition. Near is having sex with L because it gives him an advantage.

It is foolish of L not to realize this.

It is even more foolish of L to fuck the little sheep in his room where anybody can hear him bleating as pitifully as if he were one of his brethren caught in the jaws of a wolf.

Not that L is the wolf in this situation. L is innocent. A victim.

Near is the wolf here. The wolf in sheep’s clothing. Preying on their mentor as brazenly as any wolf preys on a herd of unsuspecting lambs.

Nobody else, as far as Mello is aware, knows of their relationship. He knows L sometimes brings Near into his own rooms, as he brings Mello into them for special mentoring, and he is sure they do it there too. Why they would do it in Near’s room is perplexing. But that’s how Mello knows of it. The first time he had heard them he had startled awake, panic already tightening his chest, and for a moment he did not know why. Then he had realized he had been awoken by the sound of quiet, distressed crying.

There was only one person it could have been. Mello and Near’s rooms are at the end of a wing far removed from the rest of the orphanage. Their rooms are much larger than those of the other children, plusher, and they do not have roommates like the other children. This is because they are L’s heirs and they have secrets to keep and certain privileges that come with this title.

They do not have to share a bathroom with half a dozen children like the others. They share a single bathroom and it separates the two bedrooms. The only way to enter it is either through Mello’s bedroom or Near’s bedroom and they do their best to avoid each other. Mello showers in the morning because he values cleanliness and Near bathes in the evening because he values comfort. All things considered, sharing a bathroom with Near is not the worst. He does not leave toothpaste in the sink or clothes all over the floor. One of the maids cleans it every Wednesday morning, entering through Near’s room because Mello always locks his door behind him.

It was inside this bathroom where Mello kneeled on the cold, white, tile floor and put his ear towards the door, listening. Listening to Near’s crying, unsure if he was listening out of worry or amusement. Unsure if he wanted to help the boy or mock him. He was grinning.

Except Near has not been crying out of pain, emotional or physical. He was crying in desperation and pleasure and he was _begging_.

“Please, I’m about to cum, let me cum.”

“Not yet, little one.”

The second voice had forced a sudden yelp of surprise from Mello’s lips and he had hurried to cover them with his own hands, stunned that he was even capable of making such a sound.

He knew that voice.

Every child in this orphanage knew that voice.

L was in there.

L was in Near’s room, in the middle of the night, doing _something_ to him. Something that made Near cry and moan and whimper and beg.

Something that Mello did not want to admit to, but he was not a stupid boy and he could not just ignore the truth.

He tried to open the door then, just enough so he could peek through and confirm his suspicions, but it was locked. It clicked quietly but did not budge. Both of the boys always locked the door from the outside, keeping each other from their personal space, so this was in no way surprising but still.

Perhaps there was another explanation. Perhaps L was removing a splinter from his hand. Perhaps Near’s knee had caught between the bars of his bed. Perhaps, perhaps…

Perhaps L was fucking Near into his mattress.

There was no other explanation. What else could Near have possibly meant by “let me cum.” Unless he had been asking L to take him somewhere with him but that was foolish to even consider. L never brought the children anywhere outside of Wammy’s House, not even the orphanage’s star pupil. L and Near were fucking and that truly was the only explanation for those sounds. When Near let out a sudden little scream, quickly muffled by _something_ , Mello returned to his bed.

It happened again. And again. And again. Anytime L visited it seemed as if Mello was bound to wake up at least once to the sound of his rival being fucked like a high school cheerleader behind the bleachers. By their benefactor. By their idol and mentor. Yet he had no proof. And even if he did what could he do with it? Tell Roger? That would do nothing to help Mello overtake Near as the rightful heir to the name of L. Still, something in him needed to see it. Not just to hear it but to see it, to confirm that, somehow, he wasn’t wrong.

It was unfair. It was unfair that Near was using sex to win the title of L’s heir. It was unfair that Near was having intercourse with L when Mello knew that Near had no interest in sex. It was unfair that Mello’s chances were slipping between his fingers like water.

And then it happened.

It was a Wednesday and Mello both thanked and cursed the maid that forgot to lock up that morning because Near had apparently not bothered to use the bathroom since classes were over because when Mello turned the doorknob it was unlocked. It rolled as smoothly as if had been greased with pig’s fat earlier that day.

Finally, finally, he was able to see it. He was able to witness first-hand how manipulative and conniving Near was capable of being.

He made sure all the lights were off, the door to his own bedroom shut so even the moonlight from his own window would not shine through, and then he very, very slowly pushed the door open. A millimeter at a time. Push. Wait. Push. Wait. It must have taken him five minutes just to part the door an inch and a half but that was all he needed to see them. To see how Near’s eyes glowed like hell fire and and how he grinned with the bared, blood-dripping fangs of a demon.

Except that wasn’t what Mello saw at all.

What he saw was a very small, very pale young boy splayed out beneath a very skinny, very pale young man, and their eyes were locked as if the very universe were to explode if they were to concentrate on anything but each other. The starlight outside illuminated them in a way they appeared to be glowing, but it hit them at an angle that created hallows and shadows, accentuating the boniness of L’s ribs and the hollows of Near’s stomach.

When Mello had awoken it had been loud. The banging of Near’s headstand against the wall and the way he had been moaning as if in terrible pain had been like nails on a chalkboard against Mello’s ears. He had attempted to block it with a pillow when he first woke, just repeating to himself in his head, _let me sleep, let me sleep, let me sleep_.

But now they were quiet and still and just looking at each other and this was not at all what Mello had imagined. He never would have imagined that Near was capable of such softness in his features, such warmth in his eyes. He was looking up at L as if he held the sky in his palm and L was looking down at Near as if he were the first living creature he had ever seen.

Mello hated it. He could deal with Near being cold, sneaky, the horrible like wretch he always is. But adoring?

That is not the Near that Mello knows.

That is not the Near that Near is.

But there was no way around it. Near’s expression was nothing short of adoring in the white light washing over him through the windowpane. His skinny chest was bare, and his breathing was even. Even though neither of the two spoke Mello could almost hear the words every time he breathed out, ' _I love you_.'

Mello sat on the bathroom floor, brooding and miserable and waited and watched but they were already done. They kissed and it was sweet and soft and loving, and it was disgusting. Mello felt like vomiting. Then L laid his head on Near’s shoulder and they were very still and very quiet and Mello still sat there for what seemed like hours. Finally, he had to admit they had fallen asleep and he very quietly closed the door and went to his own bed, but he did not sleep. Not for a very long time. He’s not even sure if he actually fell back to sleep that night or just existed in that half-conscious state one enters before falling asleep proper. It felt like a fever dream.

When he was startled awake by the morning bells, he was cranky and his head ached and he blamed Near and he blamed L and he blamed that stupid, stupid maid for not locking the door.

When he arrived at German class, Near was already there, studying his stupid German book, so Mello “accidentally” bumped it with his hip as he passed, sending the tome flying to the floor, out of Near’s gasp. He gave a half-hearted apology but did not offer to pick up the book and he considered that a win until some stupid girl with stupid braces and stupid pigtails picked up the book for him and set it on his desk with a girly giggle as she said “You dropped this” as if Near was an idiot and hadn’t noticed his book on the floor. Then stupid Near with his stupid little boy voice said very stupidly, “thank you,” and the stupid teacher arrived to teach their stupid class.

Matt noticed something was up, but Mello just ignored his questions and said he had trouble sleeping which wasn’t a lie. He just didn’t say what the trouble was.

Time passed. Days. Weeks. L visited. Near sobbed. Mello covered his ears with his hands. When L left he bullied Near harder. Stole his books. Knocked down his dice towers. Took his dessert from his plate when he wasn’t looking.

One day, the morning after one of those nights, he was passing Near in the hallway and he just lost it. He just couldn’t stand to look at him. He couldn’t stand the way his white socks padded along the floor. He couldn’t stand the way his pajama bottoms dragged. He couldn’t stand the way he just hunched over slightly, his arms full of books. He couldn’t stand the way his hair stood on end. He couldn’t stand the way his face showed nothing about what happened between him and L the night before.

But even all that, with all that hatred in him, Mello could have taken it. He could have just walked by, gritting his teeth, and just taken it.

Except one thing.

Near _smelled_.

Not…badly. Necessarily.

One could even argue he smelled good, in fact.

He smelled like strawberries.

Not real strawberries but something artificial. Like those little strawberry candies with the jelly inside. Or a strawberry car air freshener. Sickly sweet but pleasant in small doses. And without needing an explanation because Mello is a fucking genius too, thank you very much, he knew he was smelling lubricant on him.

Near always bathed at night.

He had bathed before L’s visit and he hasn’t bathed since.

And now, now Near was walking around smelling like sex like that was perfectly normal, just showing off for the world to see. Well, for the world to smell. Thinking he was safe because who the fuck would figure out that Near smelled like strawberries because he was getting laid and of course L would have lubricant that smelled like strawberries which means Near’s asshole smells like strawberries and probably the inside of his fucking guts smells like strawberries.

Mello didn’t even think about it. He just turned and his hands were on Near before he knew it, shoving him, and then Near was sprawling onto the floor, his books falling around him and somehow those books hit the ground louder than Near did because the sheep was so light and so padded it was like dropping a pillow rather than a boy on the ground.

Then he had the audacity to look up at Mello with hurt in his eyes. Hurt. Like Near was capable of such a thing. Not physical pain because he wasn’t holding his arm of his leg or complaining about breaking anything. He was just sitting there on his strawberry-smelling ass, looking up at Mello as if he was a puppy that had just been kicked and God fucking dammit, he refused to fall for this shit. Mello was not L and he would not fall for Near’s hurt puppy dog bullshit.

“What did I do?” Near asks and his voice catches in his throat. He sounds like he wants to cry and that is impossible because Near does not cry. Near cannot cry. Near cannot smile or laugh and he definitely cannot cry.

 _He’s faking it_ , the voice in Mello’s head tells him. _He’s faking it because Near does not show emotion. Near is barely human_.

 _Except when he’s with L_ , the same voice says. _Then he cries and smiles and laughs_.

He does not know how to respond to Near’s question, so he just mumbles out a low, “I hate you.”

“But you always hate me,” Near says. He sits up on his knees and starts gathering his books in his arms now. He doesn’t look up this time when he asks Mello, “What did I do?”

“You cheated,” he responds this time. He knows he should offer to help Near up, but he stays frozen in place, watching the white curls from above, no longer feeling superior. Just feeling petty

“On what? On the science test? I didn't cheat I just studied.”

Near does not stand up. He stays on the floor, crouching in a very similar position to how L crouches, and looks back up at Mello once more, now with his books in a neat pile in his arms, largest on the bottom, smallest on the top. He is so small the pile of books nearly touch his chin.

“It’s, it’s unfair,” Mello gets out. His fists are tight, his nails digging into the soft skin of his palms. “We are supposed to be judged on our merit alone but you’re having sex with him. You’re selling your body to him like some cheap prostitute.”

Near’s eyes go wide. Just for a second. Not even. A half a second. Then his mask is back in place and he stands up much too gracefully for an ugly sheep like he is and wipes at imaginary dust on his pristine white pajama bottoms.

“I have no idea what you are speaking of.”

Then he turns and walks away. Leaving Mello fuming and his face hot and his need for revenge boiling over.


End file.
